#216 - Scar Tissue

WARNING: A disturbing scene is described in the post below, and at least one word may not be suitable for sensitive ears.

The other day, I was listening to an interview a friend and former colleague was doing on a New Orleans radio station about a documentary she's been working on for the past decade. (Talk about dedication!) The documentary, titled "Battlefield: Home," is about the battles servicemen and women, along with their families, face when they return home from active duty.

My friend's film has nothing much to do with this post except that it got me thinking about the idea of scar tissue. We usually think of scar tissue in terms of surgical procedures. However, many of us carry around scar tissue of a different nature.

In the case of my friend's parents, that scar tissue was created by supremely traumatic events. My friend's mother was a child survivor of the second atomic blast during World War II, in Nagasaki. Her it father was a survivor of two tours (if I remember correctly) in Vietnam. Those experiences, I'm sure, left emotional scar tissue, something that really never goes away.

As my friend was talking about her parents, I began to think about my own scar tissue. When I was five, my father left for work one day, never to return (something I've posted about on a couple of previous occasions). The story my mother gave me for the rest of her life was that he left because he could not handle having a family. The story I later got from another family member was that my father had a penchant for underage girls. My mother found out and kicked him out. Scar number one.

My mother soon found herself a new beau who would become husband number two. Living in Los Angeles, a bustling metropolis, and having the looks my mother had, she should have had a good chance of landing a Mr. Right type. The man she ended up with turned out to be all wrong.

Husband number two came into my mother's life after a short stint in San Quentin (you know, the other prison Johnny Cash recorded a concert in) for killing another man in a bar fight. When my mother met him, husband number two was working as a truck driver but apparently did not like driving a truck because he promptly quit as soon as they married and moved us to a small town in the Mojave Desert. To the best of my recollection, he never worked again during the five years they were married.

Of course, expecting to feed, clothe, and house a family of five (he had a son and I had a sister) on the income of a waitress would have been hard enough. It turns out the bar fight was not an isolated demonstration of the temper of husband number two.

He was prone to yelling at my mother and not at all reluctant to slap her around from time to time. For the most part, I have blotted the specifics of those years out, but one episode has never left me. So vivid was it at the time that I have never been able to blot it out.

One day, for reasons I don't recall (possibly something to do with an assumption on the part of husband number two that my mother had held back some of her tip money, although he never really seemed to need a reason), husband number two began yelling at and slapping my mother. He ripped off the top half of my mother's clothing and yelled for his son to bring the scissors because he was going to "cut her tits" to teach her a lesson. I was eight. Scar number two.

For several years after my mother and husband number two split (they were married for five years, together for about three years of that time), my mother raised us as a single mother with the help of an elderly couple. My sister and I  slept in a converted chicken coop. The husband was a nice, easy going man. The wife was a fire and brimstone type who continually browbeat and belittled her husband (perhaps my first experience with the idea of a battered husband).

After a few years of this existence, my mother was convinced to move us all back to the Seattle area, where I was born. Along the way (both before and after the move), my mother cycled through a series of boyfriends and lover always searching for Mr. Right and never even finding Mr. Maybe.

Some of these affairs lasted a few months (one was a Vietnam vet with a steel plate in his head, one was a man 15 years her junior, another was about ten years younger). The ones that lasted the longest also seemed to be the ones that did the most damage.

One such affair was, in many ways a reenactment of husband number two. This affair, begun while I was in high school, involved a younger man with a volatile temper who usually just yelled at my mother, sister, and me, though he was not above the occasional slap. (By this time, I had long since learned not to cry when I got in trouble and was whipped with a belt, so I was somewhat numb emotionally.)

One night in December, just after my birthday, boyfriend number whatever came home from work after having gone out for a few drinks, and he was in a foul mood. I don't recall what my mother was supposed to have done, but I do remember that the shouting match that ensued soon became physical, with him slapping her and ripping her top off, exposing her in an eerie reenactment of the episode from nearly a decade before.

By this time, I was 17 and thought I might be able to step in and help protect my mother. I picked up a baseball bat and threatened to bash in his skull if he didn't stop hitting her. He laughed. I froze, unable to follow through. He threw her and us out of the house. (It was snowing, much like it is today, and my mother was half-naked.) When the police came, my mother refused to press charges. The boyfriend later proposed marriage, something I talked my mother out of by threatening to leave for good if she accepted. Scar number three.

Life's experiences help prepare us to survive, and I have survived, though I'm not sure I've really lived. There have been times I'm not sure I wanted to live, even spending time during my colleges years wishing I were dead and thinking about suicide. Like the episode with the baseball bat, though, I was not able to follow through (although I did once attempt an overdose of aspirin, of all things).

Over time, I have developed a thick skin. This has allowed me to endure bullying at school, abuse at home, and other things life has thrown at me along the way. On the other hand, I have encountered road blocks and obstacles made more difficult due to that thick skin which provided a safety layer but kept people at arm's length.

My experiences have made it difficult for me to make friends, love, express myself verbally. They have also led to me developing my own temper, which I am thankfully usually able to keep in check and am (more thankfully) able to keep from escalating into the realm of the physical.

My wife argues that I need to leave the past behind, and she's right as far as that goes. I have managed for the most part to move on from those experiences. Therapy helped some in that regard, though I never felt able to share some of the most traumatic episodes in those sessions.

However, our experiences do shape us, for better and for worse, and the scar tissue each of us develops as the result of our experiences do help to define us or at least create the hurdles we must overcome in order to reach whatever potential we might have.

In some ways, I am who I am because of what I experienced growing up. In other ways, I am who I am in spite of those experiences. Even at this stage of my life, I am still healing. Whatever may have created your scar tissue, I hope you are healing as well.

#196 - And The Beat Goes On

Those of you under a certain age likely won't recognize the title of this post as the title of a big 1960s hit by husband and wife singing duo Sonny and Cher. Some of a certain age may remember Cher from some of her music videos in the 1980s and 1990s where she seemed determined to find out just how few clothes she could get away with not wearing. Fewer still may remember that Sonny later went on to become mayor of Palm Springs, California and a conservative Republican Congressman. (I'm still not sure where he took a wrong turn.)

Although all of that is, perhaps, mildly informative, it has nothing to do with the subject of this post. (Aren't you glad you read this far? I know I am.) In a sense, this blog post is really about nothing. Which also means it is about everything.

If you are anything like me (and for your sake, I hope you aren't), you might reasonably expect that once you reach a certain age, life might begin to slow down a bit, and you can finally take time to stop and smell the roses. Except that life really hasn't slowed down much, if at all.

Even though our son is now 19 and could, perhaps, be expected to be out on his own or at least fend for himself a bit more, it seems we are busier than ever with him. And when we aren't, we're busy with our own activities. He always has something going on. Or we do.

The fact that our son is autistic necessitates some of our involvement, even as he resists and struggles to assert his independence, a very normal step to take once you turn 19. For us, the challenge is trying to allow him to assert that independence while also trying to teach him and guide him so that he can be more independent even as we try to direct him. It's all very catch-22.

At the same time, I am entering almost a personal Golden Age of lyric writing, writing some of the best things I've ever written at an age when many songwriters are either resting on their laurels or struggling to find things to write about. (Since I have no laurels to rest on, that is not an issue.)

On Saturday, I move another year closer to traditional rocking chair age. Yet in many ways, I'm probably more alive than I've ever been. With my wife's help, I've been able to take some of my songs from simply lyrics and a melody destined to be lost (because I don't actually write/annotate music) to actual song status and then performed them for live audiences. It has been both nerve wracking and perhaps the greatest thrill of my life.

While I may never be like Mel Brooks and be able to say "It's good to be the king," I can say it's a good time to be alive, despite all the craziness around the world. Desperate people resort to desperate acts. I choose not to reward or respond to their desperation. Despite their efforts, despite their anger, despite their desperation, life goes on for me. I hope it goes on for you as well and that you can find little things in which to anchor your piece (and peace) of the world.

#191 - Falling Deep Into Autumn

Now that we are into the home stretch of October, fall has hit the area like a sledgehammer. A few weeks ago, temperatures pushed into the mid-80s; as I write this on a Friday morning, the temperature outside is a balmy 35-degrees.

If I have to pick a favorite season, I suppose fall/autumn is it, at least until it gets closer to the start of winter. Daytime temperatures are usually comfortable, mid to upper-70s, allowing a wide ranging of clothing options, while mornings are crisp but not frigid.

In addition, the color palette chosen by the Master Artist for autumn is, to me, the most vibrant of that used in any of the four seasons. Reds and golds and greens and browns all compete for place of prominence on the earthly canvas, while the skies above stake their claim with a mixture of vibrant blues and dazzling whites, mixed with the occasional gray tones.

Autumn is also in many ways the most complete season in terms of the cycle of life. Even as leaves give up their tenuous hold on life and flutter noiselessly to the ground, new life begins its uncertain journey as seeds fall and blow on the capricious wind to who knows where, and those amongst us with green thumbs plant fall bulbs in hopes of seeing springtime flowers.

Fall has it all, life and death, endings and new beginnings, a microcosm of existence played out upon this natural stage. Mother Earth gives and she takes back, autumn being the season of tallying and re-balancing the eternal equation.

This, even more than the traditional travel season of summer, is the time of year when I most think about being on the road. Autumn is when the nomadic pull in me is strongest. I long to be on the road to somewhere, anywhere, to see new things, new people, new places. This is the time of year I think about places like New Mexico, Arizona, southwest Texas, Maine, the Carolinas. This really is the time of year when I am going to Carolina in my mind (apologies to James Taylor).

Of course, the trade-off to the richness of the autumnal color palette is, as Dylan Thomas might put it, the dying of the light, as days get shorter. Soon, many of us will settle in for our long winter's naps, going through the motions of getting through each winter's day in a form of semi-hibernation, as we wait for the coming of spring and the beginning of another cycle, another chance to dance.

What is your favorite season and why? Please leave me a comment below.

#179 - Another Auld Lang Syne

As I sit here, there are less than four hours left in 2014. My son is busy playing away on his WiiU, and my wife is asleep on the sofa in the other room. I'm sitting here trying to figure out just what I want to say as one year ends and a new one begins. Do we know how to party or what?

As is the case every year, new names and faces entered the world as well as the public consciousness while other people gave up their earthly existence, their souls embarking on the next stage of their cosmic adventure.

For some of my friends, the losses hit closer to home. One friend and former colleague lost her father. Even though children are supposed to outlive their parents, I don't think it's any easier for a child to lose a parent than it is for a parent to lose a child. In some ways, that kind of loss may sum up better than anything what life is really all about.

Life is not supposed to be easy. It is not supposed to stay constant; life is fluid, always changing, much like a river changes over time. The other part of the lesson in all of this may be that nothing worth having is gained without effort.

A different kind of loss befell another friend of mine this year. Her longtime boyfriend lost his job after working for the same company for many years. That kind of loss can put stress on a relationship and create all kinds of uncertainty. Being that he is the same age as me, I can relate a bit to the challenge ahead as he tries to re-enter the workforce, especially when it comes to landing a good-paying job. The one difference is that I was lucky enough to be able to leave on my own terms.

Just as in any year, 2014 was not without its positive moments. We welcomed a grand or great niece into the family. Teresa and I enjoyed a wonderful week with her brother and his wife and without children. I wrote more than I have in years, and Teresa and I worked up one of my lyrics that we may perform publicly for the first time in early 2015.

Sometimes I think about things that might have been and things I might have done if I'd had more ambition or drive or strength of personality. At the same time, as I get older, I realize that as long as I'm breathing it's never too late to start working on making one's dreams a reality. Having said that, I also realize that it probably wasn't the smartest thing to wait so long to get started.

May the coming year bring each of you health, happiness, and peace. Most of all, though, I hope 2015 brings each one of you the desire to pursue and achieve at least one of your dreams. Make new friends and remember old ones. Reconnect with your inner self and with those around you. Happy hunting and happy new year!

#178 - Lessons Learned

"Lessons learned are like bridges burned, you only need to cross them but once."

- Dan Fogelberg

I don't think Dan Fogelberg had someone like me in mind when he wrote those words thirty-plus years ago. Over the course of my journey through this lifetime, it seems I have had to learn some lessons more than once. At least it feels that way.

As I prepare to mark another year in the book of life, I look back and ponder the question of what, if any, lessons have I learned. I'd like to think perhaps I have finally learned a few, albeit at a slightly later stage in life. However, the reality is that I am still learning. At least I hope I am. Among the things I am trying to learn:

1. Stuff is replaceable. Friends and family are not.
   
   When I was four years old, my favorite toy was a working mockup of a car's dashboard. It had a  little windshield with working wipers, a steering wheel with a working horn, even a radio (which for some reason never did work). One day, some other child picked up this favorite toy of mine and threw it into the swimming pool of the apartment complex where we lived. I tried to go in and save it, but being unable to swim at the time, I guess I was lucky not to have drowned. It was my first real sense of loss. The following year, my father left for good. Although I now know there were good reasons for him being banished from our lives, you can probably guess which loss had the greater impact.
   
   
2. Define your stuff. Do not let your stuff define you.
   
   So often we are defined by what we do or by what we have. People with big houses and new cars are seen as successful. People with smaller houses and older cars are not. It seems to me the really successful people in this scenario are the marketers and salespeople who convinced those with the big houses and new cars that they needed these things and the added expenses that go with them. As I get older, I think about getting rid of stuff, stuff I don't use or need. At the same time, my son talks about getting more stuff. The battle of the bulge with regard to stuff is a never-ending one. In the new year, I hope to put our house on a stuff diet.
   
   
3. Sometimes, less is more.
   
   This piggy-backs on the previous point about stuff. We work five or six days a week, 40, 50, even 60 hours or more a week, volunteer for overtime, etc., all in search of a bigger paycheck to pay for our toys and the things we want. Perhaps if were a bit more selective or held on to things longer or perhaps did not jump on every bandwagon or take part in every new craze that comes along (the hype over the new iPhone 6 comes to mind) we would not need quite as much money and would actually have time to enjoy what we do have and perhaps spend time with friends and family. Yes, there are things I want, but I try to wait patiently as we save toward those things. In the meantime, I look at some of the things around me and wonder whether I could get rid of some of them.
   
   
4. Once you reach a certain age, time is no longer on your side.
   
   When the Rolling Stones sang that time was on their side, they were all in their early 20s. Once you reach the age of 30 or 40 (definitely 50), time is no longer on your side. In other words, if there is something you've dreamed of doing, do it. I struggle with this one because of a variety of factors: lack of self-confidence, lack of ambition, lack of discipline, just a lack of. Throughout my life, I have had a number of dreams. Many of them I've long since given up on, some I stubbornly hold on to.
   
   
5. Chase your dreams while you are young before life gets in the way.
   
   This could almost be point 4b. I am not saying here that it is impossible to pursue your dreams after a certain age. However, I do think it is easier to chase a dream when one is younger and still firmly holding on to the strength of their convictions. Older people sometimes refer to the young as being idealistic and/or naive, as if that were a bad thing. I suspect that some of them are actually lamenting the loss of their own innocence and of their own dreams when they say something like that. They realize that it is easier to chase a dream before one gets tied down with a job, a family, a mortgage, etc. Having said that, however:
   
   
6. Never stop dreaming.
   
   Even as we get older, it is important to keep dreaming. Dreaming may not keep us young, but it can help keep us young at heart and give us a reason to get out of bed each morning. Even at my age, I continue to dream. I truly believe that the day I stop dreaming is the day I die, even if the body lingers for years after. Do not listen to those who tell you to grow up and start living in the real world. They are the walking dead who stopped dreaming years ago. Having seen the real world, I can attest that it is not all it is cracked up to be.
   
   
7. Find your passion in life and pursue it.
   
   I believe that each of us has something we were born to do, and only rarely does it coincide with what we do for a paycheck. Often, it may not bring any financial reward at all. Riches, though, are not defined simply by one's bank balance. I have struggled with this for years and have yet to truly define my passion, but I know it's out there. I think, perhaps, that my passion is writing, though not the type of writing I've often spoken to others about, novel writing. I think lyric writing may be my passion; it has certainly been my lifeline for 40-plus years. I will never be mentioned in the same breath as Paul McCartney or even Irving Berlin, but I think I occasionally come up with something pretty good. So I keep writing. If you cannot identify your passion, ask a friend to help you. Brainstorm, do whatever it takes, but find it. Having a passion, more than a big paycheck or lots of stuff will help keep you sane and will likely lead to a happier life.
   
   
8. Look beyond the black and white to the shades of gray. It is there that the truth is found.
   
   I am fearful of people who speak in absolutes. No one has all the answers. No one religion or philosophy has all the truth. There are always at least two sides to every story, sometimes many more. I also believe there is more to truth than mere facts. One needs context as well. Without context, facts are like random numbers, meaningless. Often, looking beyond the words to the speaker and the circumstance is much easier said than done. I myself probably fail as often as I succeed. But I believe it is worth the effort.

Keep trying. Keep learning. Keep laughing. Keep loving.

#153 - Balancing Between Today and Tomorrow

“Sha-la-la-la-la-la live for today / And don’t worry ‘bout tomorrow, hey”

– The Grass Roots

Finding the balancing point between what is and what might be is always challenging. How does one know whether he or she is making the right choice? Hindsight may be 20/20, but foresight and forward vision can be a bit blurry at best and myopic at worst.

One of the blogs I regularly read is currently in the middle of a series of posts that have a bit of a survivalist bent to them, looking ahead to dwindling oil supplies, hyperinflation, and a collapsing economy. Definitely not light bedtime reading. But is the author right? Are we headed for financial Armageddon?

I don’t know the answer to that question, and he admits he doesn’t, either. That’s the point. Not even the wisest of us has a direct line to the future, so none of us really knows what lies ahead. While the song by The Grass Roots may, on one level, seem a bit irresponsible, there is a lot to be said for living for today.

Today is all we can see and all we have any semblance of control over. That does not mean doing nothing to plan for the future. Nor does it mean not having any hopes or dreams to look forward to or live for. What it does mean is doing the best you can today to plan for the future without sacrificing the present and worrying about tomorrow if and when it comes. 

Looking at the world around me, I see that throwing money at the problems we face, as America is sometimes accused of doing, has so far not solved the problem. Nor has cutting spending to the bone, as has occurred in some European countries, done the job. As in all things, balance and moderation seem to be the key.

I’ve been accused often in my life of being a pessimist, but I am something of an optimist at heart. While I believe we face a variety of challenges in the years ahead, I also believe we can and will address them, whether it be through evolution, technology, divine intervention, or some combination of all three. Forty years ago, during the last worldwide oil shortage, many were forecasting gloom and doom. Since then, we have made great strides in alternative energy sources such as solar and wind, and I suspect further advances lie on the horizon.

I sometimes think about what the future holds for my autistic son. I realize that I will not be around for most of his adult life and will not be there to guide him through whatever lies ahead. Plans are in place to try to prepare for his future, but as what anything forward-looking, those plans are at best an educated guess as to what he’ll face and what he’ll need. At the same time, his parents hope and plan as parents for our own future.

I suppose the moral in all of this is to do your best to plan and prepare for the future you hope to see while also doing your best to live in the now (and not, as Jethro Tull once sang, “keep living in the past”). Metaphysically speaking, I guess I need to work on my sense of balance. Sha-la-la-la.

#148 - Write Your Own Song

"You can write your own words / You can sing your own song
And it doesn't really matter if you're out of tune / Or if no one sings along"
- John Wesley Harding "Sing Your Own Song"

Next to Elvis Costello, John Wesley Harding is, perhaps, my favorite songwriter of the last twenty-plus years. Plus, he's written three novels. In other words, he's done the things I always told myself I wanted to do.

A part of me has always been into writing. I won't call it a passion, as there has always been some question about whether I'm truly passionate about anything. However, I have enjoyed writing for quite some time, even making a living at it during my years as a reporter and later as a news producer.

In high school, I worked on the school newspaper, writing editorials about book burning, gas rationing (it was the 70s, the time of the oil embargo), and the like. I latched onto writing as a way to be noticed, I suppose, something that didn't happen from being in marching band, and I wasn't coordinated enough or strong enough or fast enough for sports.

Writing also became my way of coping with the world around me outside my home, as well as the feelings and emotions inside me and my home. Because I have the discipline and dedication of a gnat (and at times the attention span to go with it), I never worked much on longer forms of writing, although I always told people I wanted to write a novel . . . one day.

Instead, I latched onto song lyrics as my outlet. It was almost like writing poetry, except I didn't have to be opaque or obscure or quite so metaphorical. Song lyrics were also good and inexpensive therapy. My lyrics, bad as they were at times, helped me to express and work through things I wasn't really comfortable sharing with others. As a result, most of the lyrics I've written have perhaps thankfully never been shared with others.

I began writing lyrics my senior year in high school, and I've never really stopped, although I have gone months at a time without writing a word. Forty years of thoughts, feelings, rhymes, and stories. Most of what I've written is utter drivel and not likely to be improved with age or revision, something I almost never do.

Yet, I keep writing. It keeps my mind and my imagination active. I've written enough words to probably fill two or three novels, although I don't think much of a narrative could be pieced together from them if all those words were combined. (An interesting experiment for perhaps another day.)

I'd like to think my lyric writing has improved with time, age, and possibly wisdom, but a writer of any genre is generally not the best judge of his or her own work. So, at the end of this post, I'll let you decide.

The song I quoted at the start of this post, "Sing Your Own Song," conveys the idea that we each of us should live our own lives, write our own songs, as it were, and not worry about what other people want, think, or say about it. It's the idea that each of us marches to the beat of a different drummer.

I've been marching to that different beat for most of my life. I'd like to think my drummer has gained a better sense of timing and rhythm over the years. I'd also like to think that drummer will one day help me beat out that novel I still hope to write. In the meantime, I'll keep writing my lyrics, even if "no one sings along." Here's the latest, based on no personal experience or person I know, yet it probably fits several people who have gone in and out of my life over the years.

Just One of Those Things

I see the crystal vision / Of places we once went
I know my indecision / Caused us to lose the scent
Of what we had
I know I should be sad
But I'm not even mad, it was just one of those things

I hear the distant echoes / Of songs we used to share
They seem to end in mid-note / Left hanging in the air
Reminders of
This thing we once called love
Not quite like hand in glove, it was just one of those things

We thought we knew where we were going
We hadn't a clue
Each day, the doubt kept growing
Inside both me and you

Around me, imitations / Of things we used to do
Are there reminding me of / The life I had with you
So long ago
Where did that feeling go?
I don't really know, it was just one of those things

We finally reached the point
We couldn't take any more
One of us had to leave
We both walked out the door

I know someday the memories / Will simply fade away
Well meaning friends no longer / Asking if I'm okay
Like something's wrong
We just did not belong
And when one day you were gone, it was just one of those things

No need for sad goodbyes, it was just one of those things

One day we'll look back on this as just one of those things

- All rights reserved, 2014 -

#147 - Decisions, Decisions

If you think about it, life is a series of decisions, followed by an occasional lull, followed by another series of decisions. Do I get out of bed? Do I sleep in an extra hour? Do I have oatmeal for breakfast? Do I wear plaid to work? (Hopefully the answer to that last question is a decisive NO.)

Those little day-to-day decisions are punctuated by bigger decisions that are often referred to as MAJOR LIFE EVENTS – moving, getting married, having children, changing jobs. As a result, the course of one’s life graphed out looks a bit like a sine wave or an EEG.

Recently, I was faced with a potential major life event. A company I had worked eight years for before being laid off last August called to ask me if I was interested in coming back to work for them. Seems they realized they had made a teensy miscalculation in the number of people they actually needed to adequately run the day-to-day operations of the company.

Deep down, I suppose some part of me felt vindicated that they had realized their “error” in letting me go. So I agreed to talk to them, not really expecting anything to come of the interview. To put it mildly, I generally suck at interviews unless I don’t feel I have anything to lose or don’t feel pressured to do well. One of those must have been the case because a few days later they called to offer me a position.

After a little back and forth negotiating (something else I’m not much good at), they agreed to pay me what I was asking. I prepared myself to return to what I felt would be a more stressful situation than my current job, even going so far as to fill out some preliminary paperwork and telling my current employer about the offer. Then I woke up and smelled the coffee, I guess.

A delay of a few days in getting some questions answered gave me time to think about the impending move. The more time I had to think, the more anxious I became about going back. On the other hand, could I really turn down what was a sizeable pay increase? I didn’t know, so I did what any married man would do – I asked my wife.

As I talked over the offer with my wife, she noticed that I started talking more and more like someone who had decided to stay and not change jobs. I wasn’t aware of it until she pointed it out, but my entire discussion with her essentially became me convincing myself not to accept the offer.

I realized that I was lucky enough not to need the extra money. My current position feels a lot less stressful than my former job. I know everyone’s name, and everyone seems to get along. Plus, they seem to like the job I do and sounded genuinely relieved and grateful that I had decided to stay. I think I was as well.

Would I make the same choice six months from now? Who knows? That’s a decision for another day that may never arrive, or perhaps it is part of one ongoing decision. That discussion, however, is a bit deep for this blog. Instead, I’ll just worry about whether to pour a glass of red or white wine when I get home tonight from work.

#108 - Livin' La Vida Bueno

(Apologies to Ricky Marin, Ricky Martin fans, and those who can't stand Ricky Martin. I think that covers just about everyone.)

Life has been pretty good of late. Sure, it's had its stress - Teresa's job situation being in doubt, then resolved, then who knows? I've also been working plenty of overtime (including weekends) this summer while also trying to help get Christopher to do the required work for his online photography class.

I caught the sun just right

Yet, in the midst of that, I have had some good moments. Going out with Christopher to take architectural photos. Here's one of my favorites, featuring a Methodist church (or part of it) in downtown Boise:

I think we had a good time together, at least I did. In fact, since I bought my new camera about six weeks ago (a Pentax K-r DSLR from Costco), I've probably taken more pictures than I took in the several years Teresa and I shared our Panasonic Lumix point-and-shoot (a very nice camera that Teresa still uses).

Our new home on wheels

It has been an eventful summer. Right before Teresa got word that her job was being sent offshore (a decision rescinded a couple of weeks later with the immortal phrase "oh, we made a mistake"), we decided the time was right to upgrade our fifth-wheel. We found a 2007 Alpenlite Voyager with a much more family-friendly layout for a relatively low price. While we weren't really looking to trade up, we decided the price was too good to pass up, and we pulled the trigger. We were able to sell our old fifth-wheel within a couple of weeks. So far, we've only taken it out twice, but we look forward to years of enjoyment.

Today also marks four weeks exactly since I decided to end ongoing sessions with my therapist. At the time, I decided to end the sessions for primarily economic reasons. With Teresa's job status up in the air at the time, it seemed the right thing to do.

Later, when Teresa's job situation seemed a bit more secure, it still seemed like the right thing to do but for a different reason. I felt we had kind of plateaued in our session and felt I needed to undertake the next part of my journey on my own. I don't know if I will complete my journey of self-awareness before I finish my journey on this earth, but to paraphrase the old Virginia Slims cigarette commercial, I've come a long way, baby.

Here in Idaho, school is back in session, and the Labor Day weekend is almost upon, both of which mean a winding down of summer. For many, that means an end to camping and RVing experiences until the next year, but for us it may be only the beginning. Christopher has asked about taking the trailer somewhere for Christmas, and we're also hoping to make several outing between now and then.

So, if the phone rings and no one answers, look for us somewhere on the road living la vida bueno. I'll be the one with the smile on my face.

#100 - Working vs. Living

"I'm taking what they're giving 'cause I'm working for a livin'." - Huey Lewis and the News
"Work, work, work. Work, work, work." Mel Brooks as Gov. William J. Le Petomane in Blazing Saddles

Some time over the last month or so, I seem to have crossed the line from someone with a job to someone bordering on being a workaholic. And I'm not all that happy about it.

Last week, I worked a little over 60 hours. Three of the previous four work weeks were over 50 hours, and the remaining week was almost 50 hours.

There are those who say that in this economy I should be thankful to have a job. However, I suspect many employers count on people having exactly that mentality and keeping quiet as more work is piled on them. I know I've kept quiet. Employers rely on our distorted sense of responsibility with the end result that many of us put our employers ahead of our families or our own well-being.

My developing theory about this is that workload is the individual equivalent of the theory regarding highway expansion. That theory basically states that as highway capacity increases (additional lanes, new roads, etc.) the level of traffic or traffic load will increase to fill the additional new capacity.

In terms of the workplace, the way this plays out is that, as you increase the number of hours you work (presumably in order to catch up or even get ahead), the workload increases to fill that additional capacity. As a result, I end up no further along than when I was working 40 hours a week.

That's why I cringe whenever I hear the latest report on productivity in this country. Yes, we all are doing more with our hours at work, but at what cost? In an age where workers are disposable parts, we all try to make ourselves seem more valuable by putting in 60, 70, 80 hours a week, thereby hastening the pace at which we, too, must be disposed of because we've burned out like a light bulb.

There are those who tell me "think of the paycheck you'll get" which contains a tacit assumption that money is the most important thing in life. It's not. It can't buy you love; it can only rent you lust. It can't buy you happiness; it can only buy you stuff to fill the empty spaces and create the illusion of happiness. I know, I've tried that approach.

A former colleague once uttered what remains one of the best pieces of wisdom I have ever picked up. As he was leaving, he told me "I work to live. I don't live to work." I've always thought of those as words to live by. Lately, it seems the balance has shifted in the opposite direction, It's time for me to reverse course and soon.

On a side note: This is my 100th post on this blog. I never thought I'd get this far. At some point, I thought I would become more focused in my posts in terms of topics, but this blog has remained somewhat random, thereby living up to its name. It has in turns been therapy, rant, attempt at humor, heartfelt, but hopefully not boring.

#68 - Something About Nothing

I realized tonight it has been three weeks since my last entry, so I thought I ought to write something. Like all great writers (so I'm told, not being one myself), I've perhaps been suffering of late from writer's block.

Or rather, I haven't been able to come up with a theme for an entry. So I have decided to write a little something about nothing. That is, I am going to write a bit of stream of consciousness about what has been going on in the last three weeks.

For a week or so, Spring teased us here in Idaho and acted as if it had finally decided to make its entrance, somewhat like a diva arriving fashionable late to her own party. Temperatures reached the upper 70s and low 80s, and we marked the occasion with a weekend at Bruneau Dunes State Park joining a local chapter of the Good Sams Club.

About a month and a half early, we had made the decision to join this chapter of the national RV group because we decided that sometimes it would be nice to go out with a group, and none of our friends seem all that much into camping or RVing.

We're kind of the youngsters in the group, but they all seem like nice people, and they seem for the most part more alive when we are out in a campground somewhere. Which is also how I feel a good deal of the time.

We've made two campouts with the group and plan to make at least three more. It's nice to have that variety of occasionally joining a group and sometimes going it alone. Variety does spice things up a bit, if you recall the old quote.

Since that outing to Bruneau Dunes, winter has tried to reclaim its position of control over Idaho's weather. We actually had snow on Saturday and a couple of days of rain before that. It may not be global warming, but it sure is not normal.

On the subject of not being normal, I continue to wage my battle with my childhood demons. I do feel like I am winning that war, but the only war making slower progress might be the war in Afghanistan. Still, progress is progress, and knowing how long the demons have ruled my life, I realize victory will not be achieved overnight. Getting out in the RV helps me in that fight, so I am glad every time we are able to get out, and we try to do that often.

Something we maybe don't do enough is bathe our beagle, Oliver. Tonight, though, it was decided that he had gone long enough. Bathing the dog is a two person job because, unlike most dogs I've ever seen, Oliver does not like water - except to drink - and does not like getting wet. If he has to go to the bathroom but it's wet outside, he will hold it.

So, I tried to hold Oliver steady while Teresa bathed him. Afterward, we dried him as best we could, then got out of the way. If you ever want to see a dog imitate a bat out of hell, come to our house and watch Oliver after he has had a bath. I swear, in that state, Oliver could possibly outrun the horses at Churchill Downs.

Before that, we had decided to hook up an old DVD player to see if it still worked and could be used in place of the one now somewhat inoperable after the recent break-in of our trailer.

We set it up on the kitchen table and put in a DVD to test in. Then we got absorbed in the movie. (I'll admit it, it was "Mamma Mia," and I am a big ABBA fan.)

So, there we are, sitting in the kitchen, watching a movie. Also not normal but perhaps definitely us.

In between, I've had a chance to visit with a friend and former co-worker during his visit from Arizona. I've taken our truck back to the shop for the third time in three months. And I've argued a little politics on Facebook and tried to learn to enjoy each and every day instead of saving it all up for "someday."

Perhaps my title, "Something About Nothing," was a misnomer. Each item, in and of itself, might seem like nothing or at least like not much. Taken together, however, they add up to nothing less than life itself. And that is nothing if not something.

Mixed Feelings and Thoughts on Eternal Life

Is it possible to feel both good and bad at the same time? If so, how does one balance the two emotions to keep from slipping into utter chaos? That is the challenge I wrestle with at the moment.

The good feeling stems from the fact that my wife was promoted last week, on her birthday no less. I am happy for her and proud of her. She certainly deserves it. We celebrated the events (promotion and birthday) by going to dinner with our son to a nice Italian restaurant. No one can say we aren't doing our part to stimulate the economy.

The bad feeling comes from the fact that my best friend lost her job last week. It was a job she took because her existing job had been moved to my location and to me.

When she called to tell me what had happened, she went out of her way to make sure I wasn't feeling guilty about the turn of events. As she rightly stated, her old job was going away whether I was the one who took it or not. I have, though, managed to feel guilty about that fact since she and I first met.

At the time of her call, however, I was not feeling guilty. I have since started to feel that way a little. Somewhere inside me is the notion that this latest job would have worked out if she had not had to divide her time between it and training me. In my head, I know there were other reasons for keeping the old job while beginning the new one, but my heart can't quite escape the guilty feeling.

Worse still, her day had started with her having to have her 13-year old dog put to sleep. For those like her who are able to form special bonds with their pets, having to put a pet down is like killing one of your children. It hurts like hell.

When I was a boy, my cat got into a fight with two dogs and lost. I sat with him for an hour or so until he died. Then I cried for him and for me and what had been lost. Last week, I cried for my friend and for her loss because I knew a little of what that loss felt like.

One thing I asked my friend to hold on to was the memories of the times she and her dog spent together. I told her and I believe that as long as we hold the memories in our hearts, that loved one, whether human or pet, is never really gone, never really dies. I am beginning to think that is part of what eternal life is, what it means to live forever.

The Search for Fleeting Moments of Happiness

Of late, I have come to the conclusion that life is a somewhat mundane event, punctuated on occasion by what I call "fleeting moments of happiness." The number of these "fleeting moments" is what leads a person to decide whether his or her life is a happy one.

Such moments can range from the religious, such as First Communion or Bar Mitzvah (did you know there is a web site to help one plan a successful Bar Mitzvah?), to the emotional and possibly physical, such as a first date, a marriage, or the birth of a child. These punctuation marks in a life are what is remembered when that life ends.

I have also come to believe that successful people have more such "fleeting moments" than those who are not successful and are, in fact, capable of creating their own such moments. Such success can take many forms: abundant wealth, freedom to pursue and fulfill one's desires, a happy marriage. The list can go on.

Those fleeting moments are further punctuated by brief flashes: A memorable sunrise or sunset, a spectacular view, perhaps a wedding anniversary or a promotion at work.

The past few days have been a bit rough and have led me to search for my own "fleeting moments of happiness," to list them and consider the balance sheet. The list is not that long and contains nothing from my childhood.

There was the day I was baptized at the age of 28. A year later, I started building my own house through the sweat equity program of the Federal housing Authority (and lost the same house a few months later when I lost my job). There was the day I got married and the day a few years later when my son was born.

There have been a few memorable camping trips, including a visit to Redwoods National Park, which perhaps left feeling as close to God as I have in the last 20 years. Still, those moments seem fleeting indeed.

Thinking about such things led me to ask a philosophical question: Why are some people happy and others not? What can parents who come from an unhappy childhood do to ensure that there own children grow up somewhat happy? For that matter, what can adults who come from unhappy childhoods do to make their adult lives happier, and at what point does it become too late?

As I write this, another question occurs to me. If the world is constantly trying to achieve a state of equilibrium, then doesn't every happy person have to be balanced by an equally unhappy person? The way I feel some days, there must be one ecstatic person somewhere in this world. You're welcome.